The Way of van Gogh
by duo7700
Summary: Prequel to Two Years. Danny is forgotten as a result of his parent's yearly fight. Companion fic to "The Room I Called Home". AU, contains gore and character death. Rated M for content. Complete.


**I guess I have decided to do the Danny side of the prequel and the original "January". So... You know... Enjoy and what not.**

**-duo7700**

**The Way of van Gogh**

I expect some things from my parents, in other words, I gave them a set of unspoken rules. One, love Jazz and I unconditionally. Two, don't forget about Jazz and I for longer than twenty four hours. Three, I fully expect them to have a yearly fight during the holidays, but it must end by December 26. Those are the only things I expect from my parents. I started doing my laundry when I was seven and my parents were working on the plans for the Fenton Family Assault Vehicle. That was the first time they stayed downstairs for more than twenty-four hours. Jazz cooked for me because she was tall enough to see the contents of the pan atop the stove. She would do it again when I was nine and my parents were installing the ops center. A few years later, I locked myself in my room. Why you ask? Because of rule three, the yearly fight. I can't say I ever thought of it as impossible, merely improbable. They forgot about me. I came down to open up the packages filled with clothes, games and movies, only to find my parents looking uncomfortably at the spot where they typically put my gifts. The area beneath the green plastic tree was empty. I looked at my parents as I entered the living room as they shifted in their seat when they felt my gaze. I noticed my father with his hands behind his back. Jazz, who had been sitting on a chair facing the couch had a disapproving stare and was scowling at our mom and dad.

"Danny, we got you something special this year," my father said, unable to look me in the eyes. He pulled a silvery device from behind his back, "Your own ecto-gun!"

I stared at the small pistol, noting that it only had a twenty percent charge, one fully charged shot. I confirmed it was one of theirs when I saw scratch marks on the side, from when my mother had dropped it after my dad tripped and fell into her several months back.

I took it from him and stared at it, finally the words made their way out of my mouth, "You forgot..."

"Danny, sweetheart, we didn't mean to. Your father and I got into an argument and time got away from us," she stated, her words sounding rehearsed.

"For the fourteen years I have been alive," my voice quivering, "you two have had arguments. You two still got me something. You didn't forget about Jazz, did you?" I was on the verge of tears. I ran upstairs, gun in hand, and locked myself in my room.

I refused to leave, surviving on tap water from my bathroom and a box of granola bars that I had shoved under my bed a month earlier. I sulked for a couple of weeks. Sure, I was hungry and tired of drinking from a faucet, but I was more angry and depressed. I couldn't even tell what I was most of the time, the strength of my emotions numbing me. School had started, I watched as my peers walked by. I watched as my mother rebuked Sam and Tucker as they attempted to pick me up. I overheard her say that I was sick. This is true, in a sense. I am sick of everything.

It was about a week after school had started again that I ran out of granola bars. It was nighttime when I saw Dash walking down my street again. He never used to walk down my street, I'm sure he wished there was a better way to get to his destination. He looked up at me, but I paid him no mind and continued staring at the asphalt behind him. As he moved, I shifted my gaze towards his face. I noted the small trickle of blood on his cheek as a flesh-colored bandage partially detached from his face. I wondered who would attack Dash and live to tell the tale. As he turned onto another street, the thought left my mind. I spotted the secondhand gift that my parents had given me, its chrome finish shining like a beacon of light from the cluttered floor of the dark room, beckoning me towards it. Mere moments later, I lay upon the immaculate white linen of my bed with the handcrafted firearm pressed gently on my right temple. The weapon let loose a high-pitched whine as flipped its safety switch, allowing it to charge. When the sound reached its height and a soft beep alerted me that one shot was remaining, I pulled softly on the trigger, knowing I would only need the one shot.

I saw the grisly scene as I floated near the ceiling. A crimson mess of blood and brains, hair and skull was on the left wall, slowly oozing its way down to the floor. I watched as my father broke down the door and blocked the sight of the smoldering remnants of my obliterated brainpan from Jazz as my mother ducked under his arm, bursting out in tears as she held my limp form. I felt a pull, an irresistible urge to go into the basement. There I saw a pool of swirling green in the wall. It felt so... unnatural. Nevertheless, I knew I had to go through it. I followed the feel of the pull towards one of the many floating doors in the green sky. I opened the door and saw a cruel joke. It was my living room, as it looked during Christmas. Under the ethereal pine was an ecto-gun, mockingly shining out as if to say, "You can't escape your past."

**First time writing gore into a story and I would love to hear feedback on how well (or badly) I did.**

**The title came from the idiom, "gone the way of the [blank]" and Vincent van Gogh, who shot himself self in the heart with a revolver only to have the bullet deflected by a rib bone. He died 29 hours later. If you have read "The Room I Called Home", then you may also notice a connection.**

**I hoped you enjoyed this. If you want more, please read "Two Years" and/or "January" and its prequel "The Room I Called Home". If you already have, then please review them and assist in the overinflating of my ego!**

**I'm currently working on "Two Years". It is a chore making sure that I got all of the dialogue and minute details right.  
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